


Miscommunication for Dummies

by tinyduck



Series: so four idiots decide to start a band... [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Recreational Drug Use, like two Disney and FFX cameos each, maybe a few too many dick jokes, one alice in wonderland quotation said by a very high uni student, technically a companion piece but reading the other work isn't entirely necessary, tidus is still a moron surprising nobody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyduck/pseuds/tinyduck
Summary: Roxas is smart. He's articulate. He's wise in a way some of his friends (Tidus) aren't.With all of that going for him, it absolutely does not stand to reason that he's currently frozen in front of you, suffering the consequences of inadvertently, accidentally asking you for a handjob in the worst and most roundabout way.Roxas x Reader
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Roxas (Kingdom Hearts)/Reader
Series: so four idiots decide to start a band... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732825
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Miscommunication for Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> **This is technically a companion piece for[The Universal Language](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710310/chapters/41780435); although reading that isn't necessary, there are spoilers for the ending in this as well as a few references to jokes made in it.**
> 
> If you've read TUL and you're reading this now...you guys know I just had to write a fic for the Best Boy in that story.
> 
> The two short stories referenced in this fic: [Araby](https://www.owleyes.org/text/araby/read/araby) (also briefly referenced in TUL because sometimes you never forget being scarred by a high school English teacher's analysis), and [Eveline](http://www.online-literature.com/james_joyce/959/).

Leaving for university is one of the best things to happen to Roxas, he thinks.

He has his space, his freedom, his chance to grow. He has his (admittedly tiny) single room in the Market Street dorm. He has his wonderfully weird and diverse floormates. He has his spot as a Twilight U Dusk, and it doesn’t matter that he’s currently on the reserve roster because he still made it on the blitzball team in the first place. It especially doesn’t matter that when he sends a photo of him wearing his jersey to the group chat Tidus laughs for a solid two walls of text and then tells him the red and orange made him look like a hot Cheeto. 

Even on those rare occasions when he feels a little homesick, he does his best to remain grateful. It hits at odd times: occasionally when he’s trying to navigate the sprawling campus, maybe when he’s in the middle of lecture surrounded by a sea of a hundred other people, sometimes when he can’t sleep and is staring blearily at the grainy swirl of his ceiling. Maybe Sora had it right when he said four months was a long time, and that a semester away from familiarity (even with new, unexplored territory to conquer at your fingertips) could stretch into what felt like infinity. 

Whenever that mood hits, he has to stop and patiently remind himself that _that_ isn’t all that bad either. He has the aforementioned group chat with his idiotic former bandmates, and their relatively frequent video calls. He has the bi-weekly phone call with his parents, and on the off chance their schedules don’t line up he has his ma sending “inspirational photos” of kittens, puppies, ducklings, and minions (why…? Why the minions?), the bold black text on each one telling him to keep his chin up, or to trust in the universe, or that ‘a balanced diet is a bottle of wine in each hand!’ (also……why). He has his dad trying to join him and his brothers in their family chat in ‘cracking a meme’, which mainly consists of different variations in quality of that same, overused Steve Buscemi ‘hello fellow kids’ photo. 

When all _that_ fails (which, he has to admit, has yet to happen) …he has you.

Well, maybe that’s being presumptuous. He doesn’t exactly _have_ you per se, in the actual possessive nature of the word and he can go on and on for about ten minutes straight about the virtues of ‘being your own person’ and not falling into gross, sexist patterns where men used to claim ownership over women – probably longer, but last time it happened Sora started slamming his face into his desk and groaning loudly around the nine minute mark – but he also doesn’t have you in the general sense. The relationship sense. Hell, not even the friendship sense. He’s been forced every single time for the past three **KH ALUMNI** or **TIDUS AND THE BOYZ** or **FOUR IDIOTS ONE BRAIN CELL** or **ZANARKAND’S WHIPPED** video calls to admit that the only way he has you is in the ‘maybe sometimes you’ll make eye contact when one of you speaks up in seminar’ way. 

“Dude, it’s been a month.”

Roxas sighs and props his chin in his hand, stares balefully at his laptop camera, and prays the force of his gaze alone will be enough to turn Tidus into stone. “How long did it take you to stop dicking around and ask Yuna out?”

Tidus rolls his eyes, shovelling more chips into his mouth as he leans back in his chair. “Excuses, excuses—”

“Oh yeah, you never did. She made the first move.” Roxas wrinkles his nose as a waterfall of crumbs trail down Tidus’s shirt.

“Details, man. Point still stands that I managed to get the girl.”

“Can’t imagine why she’d ever say no,” Riku interjects dryly as Tidus noisily sucks cheese dust off his fingers.

“C’mon, leave him alone. He’ll ask her out when he’s ready.” Sora’s eyes flick upwards, and Roxas knows without knowing that his twin is staring intently at him on the screen. He has to fight back the visceral urge to run away. “You’ve talked to her at least, right?”

“……uh.”

“ _Roxas_ ,” choruses over his headphones, all in varying degrees of amusement and exasperation.

“It’s not that easy,” he hisses defensively, crossing his arms. “Two of you locked it down in high school, and Yuna probably had a brain aneurysm—”

“Hey!”

“—so it’s not the same.”

“Fuck, man.” Tidus runs a sticky hand through his air, and Sora mimes gagging. “It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You asked Naminé out, so what’s the deal?”

“Yeah, because it’s totally the same as asking someone if they wanna get froyo after school,” Roxas grumbles with a roll of his eyes, picking mutinously at some sort of stain on the corner of his desk. “Shit, why don’t I ask her if she wants to split a milkshake while we do homework together while I’m at it? Hold hands while we walk by the clocktower? Share a plate of spaghetti while some old Italian dude serenades us?”

Riku starts choking down something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, grinning from ear to ear. “It is the same. It’s not that hard.” He pauses. “Dumbass,” he adds on as an afterthought. 

If Roxas could punch someone through a screen, he’d do it. Hell, he’ll gladly spend the rest of his life backing whoever promises to make it a reality, just for the sweet sense of satisfaction he knows he’ll get from seeing _Riku_ get what he deserves. “You’ve had girls throwing themselves at your feet since you were five years old. I don’t want to hear jack shit from you.”

Sora sighs, tugging on his hair as the stubborn set of Roxas’s jaw grows even more pronounced in pixel form. “Listen, if you like this girl, like actually _like_ her, then take a chance and try talking to her.” Roxas opens his mouth to let loose another cutting, if not entirely accurate, observation, but Sora cuts him off. “Just say hi. Please. For fuck’s sake.”

Tidus throws up his hands in glee, applauding with all the forced appreciation he can muster. “Holy paopu patterned panties, thank fuck you’re swearing again.”

“Goof you.”

“Sora’s got a point,” Riku says, nonchalantly adding another line to the **# of ‘goofs’** tally beside his desk. “You don’t have to ask her out right away, but if you don’t even get on her radar, she’s never going to know you’re there.”

Roxas’s eyes narrows as he contemplates strangulation over blunt force trauma. “Remember when we all used to be this invested in your life and you hated every single second of it?” 

“Yeah, but at least I wasn’t still pining over my ex. How is _Nammy_ anyway?”

“Wrong twin, asshole.” 

Sora sniffs, miffed. “Thanks, Rox.”

Riku’s eyes narrow, and he sits up a little in his chair. “Who’re you calling an asshole, asshole?”

Roxas rises to the challenge, pushing towards the screen as he hisses, “Who’s the guy who made us sing at a high school dance about his girlfriend finger-blast—”

“ROXAS.” Everyone freezes, and Tidus pretends with all his might his palms aren’t stinging like holy hell from slamming them onto his desk. “Just go get _laid_ , bud. Fuck. We’re just trying to stop you from being a Debbie Downer (“wow, thanks, dude. Didn’t realize I was a PSA from the fifties”) and maybe actually make you, you know, smile for once. Live your best life. Keep you from joining some sort of incel subreddit hell.” 

Riku winces, massaging his temples as he glares at the screen. “Tidus, yell a little louder. Half the building missed your speech.”

“I’m not yelling,” Tidus yells, loud enough it travels through the wall dividing his and Riku’s rooms.

“Yes, you are,” a pair of female voices call back from their living room, rife with poorly hidden amusement. 

“Fuck me,” Roxas groans, dropping his face onto his desk and wondering why in seven hells he’s still friends with this idiot. You’d think after nearly ten years of bullshit, he’d have learned a thing or two. 

“That’s the way! Just _do_ it, dude.” Tidus stands and knocks his desk chair back, planting a foot on its seat as he clenches his fist, brows furrowed and smile wide. “Go out there. Let your dick run free and wild. Let it have some fresh air! Let it feel the sun on its face! Let it drink from the fountain of youth! Let it experience everything the world has to offer!”

From the streets of Spira, two boys hear a lone voice call, “Yeah!” float through their open windows and wisely choose not to let the other two know. 

Roxas peeks up at the three boys expectantly waiting for his reply, and sighs, wishing not for the first time that a void would open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole. “Yeah, yeah.”

It’s not much, it’s not really a proper answer and definitely not a promise, but it still prompts a loud cheer anyways. 

In spite of the surprisingly rousing pep talk Sora’s been texting him all morning, the pointed suggestively smiling emoji Riku’s ‘maybe, but maybe not who knows’ girlfriend has sent him (which is intriguing in and of that whole mess, but also just embarrassing because now it’s definitely confirmed that she _knows_ ), Roxas is still nervous. He’s trying to nonchalantly dry his clammy hands on the strap of his bookbag, but with the risk of leaving several damp handprints his shirt he forces them into his pockets instead. Takes a deep breath. Toes the doorway. Gets unceremoniously ‘ahem’d when his TA pointedly clears her throat and waits for him to stumble into the room. 

Roxas is ten minutes early out of habit, and he feels like he gets his books out at record speed so he can watch the door and the clock with agonizing attentiveness even though he pretends not to jump every time someone walks in. He’s managed to school himself into some sort of nonchalance by the time you walk in with five minutes left to spare, and he’s both pleased and petrified when you take the seat directly across from his. It’s a blessing and a curse that you’re by the window, because the sunlight glinting off your hair draws his eye more than once; it looks soft, and he allows himself to indulge in a daydream for a little bit as he imagines tucking it behind your ear. It’s a sentiment, he notices with slight panic, that seems to be shared by at least two other people in the room who are also sneaking furtive glances your way. 

His stomach is twisting, he’s probably got hoards of butterflies in his stomach, but the fear and uncertainty that slide insidiously into his mind and sound suspiciously like Riku and Tidus (those damn devil twins) start taunting him and making up nursery rhymes about cuffing season without a care in the world. He resolves, in that moment, that today’s the day. The sun is shining, the air is crisp with the scent of a cold, clean fall he’s never experienced before, and if he tries hard enough, he can pretend the nervous chill running through his body is purely because he’s still stubbornly refusing to wear more than a hoodie outside. Islander stereotypes be damned; he’ll never admit that anything falling under the range of twenty degrees Celsius warrants full winter gear…even though his chilled fingers beg to differ.

Roxas spends the next fifty minutes barely paying attention, half doodling and half writing down incomprehensible notes that he’ll regret later. He always liked English in high school and taking a Lit course to fulfill a gen arts credit seemed like a great idea, but instead of analyzing James Joyce he’s listening to the musical lilt of your voice as you speak. Probably not what he or his TA or even _you_ have in mind, but hey. If he’s going to end up spending the rest of the semester trying to actively avoid you as best as he can on a 16 000-person campus or in the confines of a 600 square foot room, he’s going to give himself the chance to drift just a little bit right now.

By the time the seminar comes to a close, Roxas realizes that not only has he spent the time doodling flowers, trees, a sun with sunglasses on, and a few wonky blitzballs, but he still has no idea what he’s going to say. As you’re packing your bag to leave, he also realizes with a panic that now it’s far too late to grovel on his hands and knees and ask his friends (maybe ‘friends’ wasn’t the best choice of word) for suggestions. So, he puts his own things away, shoulders his bag, and waffles by his chair as he debates whether or not it’s too weird to walk out directly behind you. By the time he figures _that_ out you’re already down the hall and he has to half-trot to catch up with you as you exit the building.

“Hey!” he calls before his mind can catch up to his mouth, and horror above horrors, you actually turn around. As do about three other people, but right now his brain is running at maximum capacity and he’s too busy marvelling at the colour of your eyes this close to realize that 1) he never specified who he was talking to and that’s probably why you’re pointing at yourself, the universal gesture for, ‘me?’, and 2) he still hasn’t said anything else and the window of time where it’s socially acceptable to pretend to be catching your breath or thinking of what to say or doing anything that isn’t creepily staring, gobsmacked, at someone else is _rapidly diminishing oh god oh god please say something anything why the fuck are you in a Lit class if you can’t even string together one sentence._

Then you save him, like the absolute angel you are. “Hey! Roxas, right?”

He smiles with a brilliance that he’s unaware rivals your own, a little giddy (although he promptly stomps that feeling into the ground) that you remember him. “Yeah. You’re (Name)?” You hum in ascent and the giddiness makes a valiant effort to return. He whacks it over the head with a shovel, digs a hole, and buries it. “You heading back to campus?”

“Yeah, to the library. Gotta cram a little for midterms before practice.”

“Practice?”

“Mmhm. I’m uh,” you tuck some hair behind your ear, smile turning sheepish if a little pleased, and he’s never seen anything more glorious in his life. “I’m on the intramural dodgeball team.”

His heart _sings_. He digs a second hole with his hands beside the first, seizes the flowers that dare to bloom atop the grave, and drops them, his heart, and a few imaginary anvils in the second pit and pours cement on top. “That’s pretty cool!”

“Really?” You arch an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be chirping me for playing poor man’s blitzball. You’re on the team, right?”

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie bashfully, bobbing his head a little. “I’m still on the bench, though.”

“It won’t be for long,” you promise, and at his confusion you flap a hand his way. “I’m friends with Datto. He told me you’re a beast at practice.”

Roxas is pleased in spite of himself. “Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his head bashfully and making a note to buy Datto a beer. “…thanks.”

“Well, this is me.” You point at the steps leading to the library and his heart sinks lower in its impromptu burial site, cursing sullenly. “I’ll see you in class?”

“For sure!” he says, and winces, and wishes Sora hadn’t chosen that particular moment to possess his body and make him shoot _double finger guns_ at you, like some sort of moron. And then you turn to leave and he panics, because even though he should be celebrating talking to you at all, he’s worried he hasn’t made that much of an impression and he can still remember those lingering eyes from seminar, and he blurts out before he can stop himself, “By the way, I thought what you said in seminar was pretty cool. It’s what I really liked about the story.” 

You’re staring at him, a little surprised, and he’s caught in the way your lips form a perfect ‘o’ as you cast about for a response. It doesn’t hit him that maybe he should be marginally worried about it, because he’s busy thinking about how much better and intellectual that is than just asking you out for froyo. It’s grown up. It’s cool. It shows he really cares about what you say even though in reality he spent those fifty minutes rehearsing different variations of how to say ‘hey’ in his head. 

“Really?”

He gives you his most winning smile, something caught between cool/aloof and just this side of amused and appreciative. He tries not to think about the summer afternoon he’d spent practicing this, when he was thirteen years old and Axel was trying to teach him ‘how to pick up chicks’. “Yeah.”

Your eyebrows pinch together slightly, and he’s too mortified to hear the amusement in your voice as you clarify, “You liked the heavy-handed phallic imagery, allusions to hand jobs, and themes of sexual repression?” 

You pause for a moment waiting for his reply, and it’s just enough time for Roxas to die inside. He also manages to bury himself in his mind, crying as he shovels dirt over his inert body and ignoring the snickering from the two graves beside him. 

“I—” He hasn’t been this lost for words since he was sixteen and getting unceremoniously dumped over text. His mouth snaps shut and he stares at you, turns swiftly on his heel, and speed-walks away.

~*~

“Stop fucking laughing.”

Sora does no such thing, and Roxas can picture his twin rolling around on the ground, arms wrapped around his stomach as tears prick the corners of his eyes. It’s awful. It’s humiliating. It’s exactly the kind of response he expected. 

“Sorry, Roxas,” Kairi giggles, and Roxas groans and tumbles off his bed onto the floor, accepting the jarring pain in his elbow as some form of additional divine punishment. “It just doesn’t seem like you.”

“Dude. What’ve we said about speakerphone,” Roxas whines, cheek mushed against his phone as he pillows it between his head and the floor. 

“Okay, okay…I’m done,” Sora gasps, wheezing as he sits back on the couch. Roxas can hear the telltale sound of him cuddling with Kairi, and the soft smack of a sweet kiss. Disgusting. “Seriously, though. You haven’t been this uncool since grade school. She’s just a girl, man. Why’re you freaking out so much?”

“Because…!” Roxas frowns at the underside of his bed. “I don’t know.”

“Roxas, self-proclaimed relationship guru doesn’t have any insight?” Kairi whistles, malice-free. “That’s a first.”

“Guys.” Roxas sits up and drags a hand across his face, unwillingly picking through the mess in his head. “It’s easier to talk about this stuff than to do it and you know it’s hard as shit for me to…to…” He struggles for the words.

“Yeah, we know, Roxie,” Sora sighs as Roxas swears at the nickname. “You don’t exactly catch crushes a lot.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m a fucking lovesick schoolgirl.”

“Just own it, bro.”

“Fuck you.”

“Roxas, I know it must be…hard after everything that happened with Naminé,” Kairi cuts in, and Roxas groans.

“This has nothing to do with her—”

“It makes sense that you’re feeling uncertain, especially since you haven’t been interested in anybody since her. It’s weird. It’s brand new, and it’s different, and it’s not the same as asking someone out from your tiny high school on your tiny island where everyone knows everyone.”

“Thank you, Kairi,” Roxas says pointedly, triumph swelling his chest. At least somebody gets it.

“But she’s still human, you know? And even if you do ask her out and she says no, it’s not the end of the world. The most important thing is that you don’t get down on yourself so much you don’t even try. Don’t assume she’s already made up her mind to leave you in the dust. Just apologize, crack a joke, and see how it goes from there.” Her voice is gentle but firm, and he shrinks in on himself, knowing deep down that she’s right and maybe, just maybe, things with Naminé had lingered in his subconscious longer than he wanted. So, of course, he snarks back, automatically defensive.

“Thanks, mom.”

She sighs, but it’s amused. “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

“…never mind. Thanks, dad.”

“Just admit it. She’s great,” Sora says fondly, and Roxas gags into the phone. “She’s got a point, though. You uh…probably fucked up just a little bit, but she probably doesn’t think you’re a total creep. Running away didn’t help, but you know. Hindsight. 20/20. Also, you probably should’ve been paying attention, because, dude, telling her you liked that she was talking about _handjobs_ is a little—”

“Talk to her,” Kairi interrupts, and Roxas feels more than simple gratitude towards her, especially when he can hear the telltale sounds of Sora struggle to remove her hand clamped over his mouth. “But don’t be weird about it.”

With that sage advice in hand, Roxas hangs up and stares at his ceiling. He has five days until lecture, and he grits his teeth as he admits to himself that picking you out of a lecture hall of 200 people to apologize is probably still infinitely less creepy than chasing you down after seminar and inadvertently implying things he really wishes he hadn’t. He sighs and slowly sits up, mentally running through a laundry list of assignments and readings he still has to do, when his phone chimes and he swears.

**Chat: RIKU JUST TELL US THE TRUTH MAN LYING ISN’T COOL  
T-Sweezy: roxas. Dude. WTF lmfao**

**Thing 1: SO. RA.**

**_Riku-dict Arnold_ changed _Thing 1_ to _Kum & Go_**

**_Kum & Go_ changed _Kum & Go_ to _Roxas_**

**Roxas: hey fuck you too**

**Riku-dict Arnold: thought you only liked handies**

**_Roxas left the chat_**

**_Thing 2 added Roxas to the chat_**

**Thing 2: Sorry sorry it just kinda happened**

**_Roxas has left the chat_**

**_Thing 2 added Roxas to the chat_**

**Roxas: I fucking hate you guys**

**_T-Sweezy_ changed _Roxas_ to _Lil Bitch_**

**_Lil Bitch has left the chat_**

**T-Sweezy: Ahhhh just let him go**

~*~

This week is starting off infinitely worse than the week before. Monday, he sleeps through class because instead of setting an alarm the night before, he just punches the number 8 into his phone calculator and his addled brain decides that’s close enough. It’s also the day he tries to cut through the field and discovers belatedly that the entire thing is one giant muddy puddle and now his shoes and socks are soaked and he feels like a cartoon as he sloshes and squeaks his way down the hall.

Tuesday, he’s hit in the face on three separate occasions by a blitzball during practice and gets the only broken shower in the locker room, which means enduring ten minutes of the coldest shower he’s ever had in his life. His towel also falls onto the floor as he’s reaching for it, someone cracks a tired joke about dropping the soap, and his locker jams so he’s left swearing and freezing in nothing but a towel for the better part of five minutes until it opens and spits his (still dirty) sneakers into his face.

Wednesday, he’s just about given up all hope that things will work out for him this week. Part of him hopes that the absolutely miserable previous two days means his luck is going to change, and fast. Instead, he jerks awake with his head pillowed on his physics textbook, an unflattering pool of drool spread across the pages, and realizes with his heart leaping into his throat that he has no time to shower and about five minutes to make it to class on a campus that’s ten minutes away. He sprints there after finger combing his hair as best he can and slouches in his seat, realizing belatedly that he’s hurried for a three hour lecture that runs through lunch, and he skipped dinner last night in favour of studying, which turned into napping, which turned into a full on ‘dead to the world’ slumber. He’s hungry, he’s grumpy, he hasn’t showered, and he’s also only realizing now that today’s his Lit lecture and he’s supposed to actually talk to you.

Looking like this.

His nose wrinkles when he takes a subtle whiff of the sweater he threw on.

 _Smelling_ like this.

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Stomach grumbling, he races out the door, intent on shoving his way through the dining hall to get some food. He would murder the someone for a bagel, right now. He would climb over a pile of inert bodies for some cream cheese too. He would—

“Hey, Roxas!”

He turns, and is relieved and miffed at the sight of Datto waving him over, the smell of burgers and hot dogs wafting from the grill in front of him. Roxas glances at his phone and wonders just how important camaraderie is, really, because if he and Tidus can win interhigh while not talking, surely just walking away from Datto won’t be _that_ rude nor cause _that_ big of a rift—

“Blitzers take priority, man,” Datto says, and Roxas wants to kiss him when Datto hands him a hot dog and waves him towards the toppings. He’s a little greedy, grabbing another hot dog from Jetty as the amused captain watches him juggling both to throw some munny at them (“Dude, this is a fundraiser for the team. You know you’re _on_ the team, right?”). Mouth full, stomach satiated, he waves haphazardly and strolls over to his Lit class, feel much better than he did ten seconds ago.

Objectively, this hot dog is the greatest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of eating. It’s better than Land of Dragons’s Szechuan chicken. It’s better than Tiana’s beignets. It’s better than his ma’s cooking. Well… He apologizes mentally for the inadvertent sacrilege, and scarfs down the rest of the first hot dog. Seriously, though, he has a newfound appreciation for whatever mystery melange of meat has made its way into his hands, and almost feels regretful that he only has two minutes to eat the second as he watches the lecture hall seats fill. So, he scarfs it down, lets his eyes flutter in pleasure, lets out an indulgent ‘mmf’, licks the crumbs off his lips, swipes up the ketchup at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licks that too, and then freezes. Swears (internally). Wishes he was currently choking on a lingering piece of bun to 1) explain away the flush covering his entire face to the tips of his ears, and 2) to finally give his mother the satisfaction of knowing that maybe gluten really _does_ kill.

Because, objectively, you just watched him deepthroat a hot dog and obscenely clean himself off (borderline R-rated noises included), and you haven’t said a word. He’s referenced hand jobs to you, you just watched him shove the dick shaped food of all dick shaped foods into his mouth; what’s next? Is his dick going to fall out his pants and start tap-dancing your way? He resists the urge to check his fly. Roxas just nods stiffly, and then hightails it into the class in the same fashion he’d left you the previous Friday. His face aflame, significantly sweatier than he was before, he decides immediately that he’s not going to talk to you today.

Thursday, Roxas is granted a reprieve. He supposes it’s the universe’s way of giving him some sort of break before he has to deliberately avoid looking at you tomorrow, and he’s going to take whatever lucky coincidence he can get. He’s walking through campus with his floormate Alice, one of the several oddballs he’s realized populate Twilight U despite, or maybe because of, the prestigious standing the school has throughout the country. Maybe, he’s reluctantly beginning to admit, you just have to be a little ‘weird’ to get in. Maybe weirdness is a conditional part of being academically and intellectually gifted. It would certainly explain what he’s currently going through.

“Hey. Alice,” he says, watching her carefully pick up a caterpillar from the middle of the path and gently deposit it on the mushroom ridden lawn. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” She doesn’t stop watching the caterpillar slowly inch its way along the cap before curling up and deeming its new home satisfactory. 

“If some guy you only kinda sorta knew from class came up to you and uh…” he winces and tugs on his bag strap, “kinda sorta accidentally started talking about…hand jobs…what would you think.”

“Oh my.” She looks up at him, blue eyes round as she gently touches her black headband and he knows, by that nervous tick alone, that his heart deciding to sink all the way down to his toes is probably very proactive on its part. “Well, I suppose it would be quite strange because I’m not very sure how many jobs there are for hands to do.”

Roxas looks at her, his face inscrutable. “How many edibles did you have today?”

She smiles serenely at him, clasping her hands together. “Just two.”

And they continue their walk back to their dorm, Roxas none the wiser about his unprecedented situation, but maybe a dime bag or two the richer. 

Friday arrives almost gently, and Roxas is a little wary about how pleasantly things are going, but then he remembers the handjob fiasco, his make-out session with a hot dog, and he pulls his covers over his head and wonders if the 10% of his seminar grade hinging on participation _really_ matters all that much. If he calculates it, realistically he’s only losing 450 munny if he skips this one seminar. It’s doable. It’s possible. It’s tempting as all hell, but he knows that pushing it will only mean trying to avoid you for the rest of the semester, and he’s not too keen on trying to figure out how to avoid you in a tiny classroom for another eight weeks. So he gets up, gets dressed, deals with his existential dread, and walks to campus with Alice and her funny smelling mug of tea until she leaves him to do whatever it is graphic designers do in school. 

Roxas lingers outside the building a little longer than normal trying to work through what feels like a herd of Meow Wows wreaking havoc in his stomach, and then steels himself and goes inside. He sits, waits, and studiously stares at his notebook when you enter, doing his best to keep from sneaking a peek no matter how badly he wants to know what level of disgust you’re looking at him with. It lasts all of ten minutes as he half-heartedly takes notes about their second James Joyce short story when the TA calls his name.

He’s never had any issue with Belle; indeed, he finds her passion for the written word inspiring and often wonders if his career in civil engineering/rocket science/becoming the first astronaut from Destiny Islands is really more appealing than just curling up with a good book and reading until he falls asleep. But right now…wow. She’s making it incredibly hard to avoid looking at you (why are you sitting across from him _again_. Honestly), but he clears his throat and shuffles through his notes anyway and offers his rudimentary analysis.

“Uh, I think it’s really interesting that throughout the entire story Eveline is weighing the pros and cons of staying or leaving, despite stating at the beginning that she’s already made up her mind to leave. It says a lot about the strength of her desire to leave home and I think the juxtaposition of her continuously saying time is running out while still lingering makes it very clear that she’s only acting on the desire to leave because it’s what she thinks she should want.” 

Nailed it.

Belle smiles, he’s avoided looking your way once, eyes trained resolutely to his TA’s forehead, and then in a matter of seconds Belle hits the top of his shitlist.

“It’s very apt of you to talk about ‘desire’ in this story as well. I think, following the theme that was brought up last week,” Belle nods in your direction, “it’s becoming quite clear that the struggle with choosing to repress or indulge in desire is central to many of Joyce’s stories. What do you think, Roxas?”

“Uh,” he begins again, articulate as always. “I don’t really know—”

“I think you’re right,” you interrupt, and he’s never been more torn between being relieved and incredibly tense, and he swears he’s nearly robotic as he turns to look at you. You barely spare him a glance as you continue, tapping your pen on the table as you answer Belle. “It’s fairly apparent with the repeated use of the word ‘come’ at the end that Frank is enticing Eveline to fulfill her desire, whether it’s the desire to leave home or to indulge sexually,” you flick your eyes over at him and his ears burn and he decides in that moment to _not bring this up when he apologizes_ , “and she refuses to do so.”

“Very true! If we refer back to lecture this week as well, we can recall that even the mention of ‘Buenos Ayres’ was often used colloquially to refer to prostitution—”

It goes on like this for what feels like hours. Roxas is convinced he’s never going to read another work by James Joyce ever again. He never knew there were so many ways to talk about or hint at sex. He’s positive that every author from the early 1900s had absolutely no shame being horny on main probably because they were all sexual deviants. He’s considering joining the monastic order in Notre Dame. He needs it. It’s the only way to end this hell.

Alas, time flows on, he doesn’t trade his hoodie for a set of brown robes, and instead of taking a vow of silence he still has to try and clear up this awful mess with you. By the time seminar ends he’s written himself a small list of rules in the margins of his notebook. There’s only three, but they’re all underlined three times with several arrows and stars collected along the border:

1) Don’t mention anything Tidus would  
2) Don’t say anything Tidus would  
3) Don’t even think anything Tidus would

Roxas reads it once, twice, nods to himself and snaps his books shut and then dithers for a few seconds, still not sure if following you out directly behind you is creepy or just logistically sound. He settles for a good two feet, realizes how it’s just a little weird he’s taking the time to measure out the physical distance between the two of you, reaches out a hand to tap you on the shoulder, and then immediately snatches it back.

“Heyaz.” He winces. ‘ _Nice opener. Real smooth_.’ “Can I talk to you for a second?” 

You eye him, pressing your lips together. “Sure. Did my spiel on repressed female sexuality inspire you?”

He chokes on his own spit and coughs violently, thumping a hand against his chest and trying to desperately wheeze _something something no something_ and then he realizes you’re laughing. Your smile lights up your face and he forgets the rest of his sentence. 

“Kidding,” you say, giggles petering out and he grins.

“I wanted to say sorry for last time. I wasn’t trying to…I didn’t want to say that…” Roxas fumbles for the right words and, like the angel he forgot you were, you wave him off.

“Don’t worry; it’s totally fine. If it helps, I was joking last time. Guess it didn’t really get across.” You scratch bashfully at your cheek, and he breathes a sigh of relief, filled with the urge to fold in half like a limp noodle and just lie on the grass. 

“Oh, thank fuck.”

“Besides,” you begin casually, smile turning slightly coy, “most guys ask me out for coffee first before they try and solicit me for a handjob.”

Understanding and funny? He can get behind this.

Roxas laughs loudly, genuinely, and the corners of his eyes crinkle so much he doesn’t see the nervous anticipation in the way you bite your nail. “Fair enough.” He catches a flash of blonde and blue out of the corner of his eye and winces apologetically. “Oh, sorry, I have someone waiting for me, but I’ll see you Friday?”

You nod and Roxas smiles and waves goodbye, jogging over to Alice where she’s patiently waiting, scratching a stray cat under the chin. She doesn’t even look up at him as she comments, “You look happy.”

He shrugs but doesn’t let his smile fall, and nudges her bent knee with his. “Nice cat. You wanna head back now?”

Alice slowly stands and looks up at the sky, shutting one eye as she tries to parse the meaning of life from the shape of the clouds, then she looks back down at the cat. “Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin, but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!”

“…that wasn’t just tea you were drinking this morning, huh.”

She links her arm with his, and half-walks half-waltzes them down the path. “It was only four grams.”

The odd half-dance they do all the way back to the dorm only serves to lift Roxas’s spirits, and he’s humming as he walks into his room, still smiling as he sinks into his chair, basking in the victory of having now spoken to you twice while also fixing last week’s mishap. Really, things can’t get any better! Then it hits him, slowly then all at once as he recounts this afternoon’s conversation to his eager listeners, voice getting softer and slower until he’s sitting mute in his chair. Four pairs of eyes fix him with varying degrees of incredulity. 

“Dude.”

“ _Dude_.”

“…dude.”

“Duuuuuuuuude.”

“Okay.” Roxas glowers at the screen, gesturing impatiently at the corner that nobody seems to want to comment on. The corner where Riku is sitting in his chair and his (ex? Ex-ex?) girlfriend is sitting in his _lap_ , and everybody’s acting like it’s a common occurrence. “We’re not gonna talk about this? At all?”

The (maybe????) girlfriend rolls her eyes and leans forward until only her eyes are visible on screen, squinting slightly as she gives the most non-committal answer Roxas has ever heard. “Sometimes these things just happen.”

Roxas rolls his eyes just as hard, a smirk edging its way onto his lips even as he fights to keep up with a disapproving glare. “What, did he just magically slip and fall into your arms?”

“Maybe he did.” She leans back and looks adoringly at Riku, and her boyfriend(???) tucks her hair behind her ear. 

“Dick first?”

Riku grins wickedly, looking all too pleased with himself as he rests his chin on her shoulder. “That might’ve slipped too.”

It’s Roxas’s turn to let out a long, drawn out “ _DuuuuUUUUuuuuuuUUUUuuude_ ” as he mimes bleaching his eyes, and the obnoxious couple do nothing but snicker at his misfortune.

“Don’t try and use their bullshit as a decoy,” Tidus reprimands, and Roxas stops mid eye-bleach to glare at his friend.

“You knew about this,” he says, accusatory, and Tidus sighs, looking resigned and pained all at once.

“Walls are thin here, man.”

“But it’s fine when it’s you going, ‘oh yeah, Yuna. That’s it, baby’.” Riku’s girlfriend(?????????) does her best impression of a water buffalo in heat and Roxas plugs his ears.

“Anyway,” Sora nearly yells over the ensuing cacophony as three of their party of five leave their laptops to hurl insults and bad mimicry at each other in person, “Roxas. C’mon, bud. For someone so smart you’re pretty goofing— fucking—” 

An aggravated sigh. Sora looks heavenward for strength as the sound of warbling animal sounds intensifies in the background.

“You’re dumb.” 

“Yeah, _I know_ ,” Roxas grits out, regret piling higher and higher in his mind whenever he replays his moment of extreme idiocy. “I’ll just try to fix things on Friday.”

“Third time’s the charm?” Sora says with a grin, and Roxas laughs wearily, crossing his arms as he sinks into his chair.

“I hope so.”

~*~

It isn’t.

Or, actually, he never really gets the chance to try since Admirer A from seminar slips beside you faster than Roxas can blink and commandeers your attention as you leave lecture. His stomach is in knots, which doesn’t help when he’s trying to swallow the bitter pill that maybe he took too long and missed his chance. But it’s fine. He’s fine. Everything’s great. And that’s why he accepts Alice’s invitation to her friend’s Unbirthday Party (he’ll never understand hipsters no matter how hard he tries), and winds up at the strangest kegger he’s ever been to in his life.

He decides then and there that he won’t be staying at Twilight U for his masters if it means he’s going to end up as……intellectually diverse as the guy with the full three piece suit, top hat (price tag still attached), and silvery grey hair that’s been bleached so much it’s sticking straight out to the side. He declines the teacup in favour of a boring plastic one, neatly dodges the plethora of mismatched furniture in the house, pretends Alice is just nose deep in a pile of sugar when he walks past her, and escapes into the backyard.

“Roxas!”

Roxas nearly crumples his cup in his hand and takes in a deep breath, smooths the surprise off his face, and ambles over to where you’re sitting on the back porch, teacup in hand.

“Hey, cheers.” He gently taps his cup against yours and sits what he hopes isn’t too close or too far away. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone I know here.”

“Yeah, me neither. One of the people on my dodgeball team is hosting, so here I am,” you take a dainty sip of your drink, pinky out, and he bites back the amused comment about the surreal party he has brewing on his tongue. He’s learning how to not put his foot in his mouth around you, and the satisfaction has him giving his mental Tidus the finger. 

“Ah. Is it their…” he pauses mostly because he’s a little embarrassed by the bizarreness of the question, but powers through anyway if it means he can talk to you a little longer, “…unbirthday?”

There’s a beat of silence and then the two of you dissolve into full-bodied giggles that have you collapsing against each other, scrabbling for purchase on the back porch as you fight to keep from outright howling with laughter.

“Okay, but seriously,” he squeezes out between a few hiccupping breaths, “what the fuck.”

“I don’t know. I really, really don’t. I knew March was kinda weird, but I think he’s had a few too many dodgeballs to the head—”

“March?”

Your cheeks puff out as you try to keep from laughing, squeaking out, “The guy with the blonde wig and bunny ears.” That mental image is enough to have the two of you laughing all over again until your sides are sore, holding each other up like a flimsy house of cards as detail after detail gets brought to light and then thoroughly eviscerated. At one point you brave the indoors once more to get something to drink, and the sight of you returning with two teapots in hand has Roxas snorting beer out his nose and that sets the two of you off for the nth time. 

As the evening passes, he finds himself lying down on the porch, watching dusk paint her pretty purples across the sky, stars flickering like diamonds in the wake of each gentle brushstroke. The wood is cool against his back and it’s soothing, a comforting contrast to the heat in his cheeks as the two of you talk about everything and nothing all at once.

“Hey,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbow and he lolls his head your way. “Shouldn’t you check in on your girlfriend?”

“…what.”

“You know. The blonde girl. About this high? Blue eyes? Wearing a white dress?” He stares blankly at you, for a moment transported back to high school as he tries to recall if he saw Naminé inside. 

“Wait, _Alice_?” He starts laughing, this one equal parts amusement and desperation as he bolts upright and shakes his head and hands and possibly his entire body. “She’s just a friend; lives on the same floor as me.”

“Oh.” He can’t be sure, but the glint in your eyes has changed and something in your face shifts and he thinks he catches a flicker of relief. “So…”

“So.”

The night air is suddenly colder than before and he shivers, feeling the warm ebb of alcohol folding its edges back.

“Do you only own hoodies or something?” you chide, pulling off your fleece lined denim jacket and offering it to him, the corner of your lips curling up a little. “Usually this happens the other away around, huh?”

Roxas chuckles and pushes the proffered garment back towards you, selfishly letting his hand skim yours. “Nah, I can’t take it.”

“Because of your ego?”

“Because I don’t want _you_ to get cold.”

You’re giving him a funny look, eyebrows pinched in a way he’s becoming familiar with, and he decides it’s very cute on you. “Why don’t we share, then?”

He has no idea how you’re both going to fit under it, but you’re draping it over your shoulders and holding it open, waiting for him, so he slides closer and presses his side against yours, shoulder to ankle. His brain short-circuits when you murmur that his arm is in the way and guide it to wrap around your waist.

Roxas clears his throat, staring at the sky. “So.”

“…so,” you echo.

He looks down and meets your gaze, and his eyes flitter away to stare intently at your apparently fascinating eyebrows. But you don’t look away, and eventually he’s drawn back down, and well suddenly his face is moving too and wow he hasn’t kissed anybody in a really long time, but you seem pretty happy with what’s going on and…oh, okay, yeah, maybe he’ll put his hand here and you can put your arm there, and alright _now_ you’re swinging a leg over him, but he’s a grown man and he can handle this it’s totally cool—

Roxas wakes to an irritable ray of sunlight shining right on his face, warm and stuffy under the two blankets he insisted on having last night. He stretches, wipes a hand across his sweaty brow and lets his arm rest above his head as he vows to never drink the suspiciously sweet ‘tastes just like juice’ mystery concoction offered at any house party ever again. A gentle tap to his wrist catches his attention and he opens his bleary eyes to stare, cross-eyed, at the folded square of paper millimeters from his nose.

“I’m just gonna grab some coffee,” you say with a half-grin. “I don’t have your number so I was going to leave you a note, but I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

Roxas slowly sits up, never looking away from the appreciative sight of you in his t-shirt, and grabs the note. He turns it over and over in his hands and peeks up from under his lashes and mussed hair, eyes lingering on the faint hickeys lining your neck as he smiles. “… _can_ I get your number?”

You run a hand through his hair because you can, and he arches into the touch, making your mouth go dry as you watch the flex and pull of his chest and abdominal muscles. “I’ll give it to you when I get back.”

“We’re doing this pretty backwards, huh?” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed as you keep petting his hair, his arms drawing you close until you’re tucked between his legs. 

You hum in thought. “Maybe.”

He cracks an eye open, a lazy smile on his face as he presses his face to your chest and tilts his chin up to look at you. “Hey, wanna grab coffee sometime?”

You laugh and sink down to meet him on the bed, all thought of caffeine forgotten as he slips his fingers under the hem of your ( _his_ ) shirt.

“I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
